


2+1

by hhopp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby's dead, Canon Divergence, Cas' POV, Charlie's alive, Coddling, Crying Castiel, Curtain Fic, Dean is Not a Morning Person, Dean's POV, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Fluff, I'm not sure where this falls on the timeline tbh, LITERALLY, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mother Hen Dean, Mpreg, Nesting, Nesting Castiel, Nesting Dean, Nicknames, No Leviathans, No angels falling, No kevin for some reason, Pregnant Castiel, Sam's POV, Thank you tag wranglers I know you hate me, Unplanned Pregnancy, Whipped Cream, alternating pov, baby shopping, but he's getting there, cas has never been human, cdiv, dean makes cas cry, gayy, idk about purgatory, it's an accident though, no trials, not abandoned i'm just really bad at updating regularly, stupidly domestic, why do people like this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-09-30 18:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10169546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhopp/pseuds/hhopp
Summary: The much-requested continuation of my prompt-meme's number 28. Rebranded as an mpreg cdiv series rather than a oneshot.NOT ABANDONED, JUST ON HIATUS.





	1. In Which Cas has a Small Meltdown and Some News is Shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so I have 18 chapters planned. We'll see if anything else comes up or if any of these flop.
> 
> (The first chapter is the same as the other fic, so if you've already read that just skip to chapter 2)

“Hey, Cas, you still in here?” Dean asked, knocking lightly on the door before pushing it open. “Sam wants to start the movie.”

 

Cas startled, dropping his pajama shirt back over his stomach. He probably had another month or so before things would start looking suspicious. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I had taken so long.” Dean did his little _ah, well, that doesn’t really matter_ smile and stepped inside. He wrapped his arms around Cas’ waist and rested his chin on his shoulder.

 

“Aren’t we a couple of handsome devils?” he quipped, catching his eye in the mirror. His shamrock colored eyes went dreamy. Cas cast his eyes away and hummed some vague agreement. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

 

“Don’t look at me.”

 

“What?” 

 

“I said don’t look at me. I’m disgusting.” Blonde eyebrows furrowed. 

 

“What do you mean, Cas? Why would—” And that’s when the little one kicked. Right underneath Dean’s palm. His main thought was _little traitor_ , but a suspiciously Sam-like voice whispered _at least she knows who her other father is._ “What the hell was that?”

 

“I’m pregnant,” he said. Except the confession came out in Enochian. Dean put his hands to his ears and yanked away as if he’d been burned. 

 

“Cas! We’ve talked about this!” 

 

“Sorry.” He crossed his arms over his middle as he turned around, slumping against the edge of the countertop. Of course, now the fledgling was still. _I thought you were supposed to be on my side_.

 

“What was that? Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine.” Dean groaned and pulled himself to his feet. 

 

“Baby, I know that you’re a lot of things, but a good liar is not one of them.” He put his hands on his shoulders. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” he whispered. “I’m fine.” 

 

“ _Cas_.” Tears began to spill from his eyes. How was he even producing hormones? “Are you sick?”

 

“No. I— I’m pregnant.” Dean slid his grip down his arms and clutched his wrists.

 

“Cas, I’m serious. What’s going on?”

 

“So am I. I’m with child.” Dean was silent for a moment, eyes narrowing as he studied Cas’ face. 

 

“You aren’t joking around, are you?” He shook his head. “Okay. Wow. Gimme a minute.” 

 

This is what he was afraid of. He had wanted to wait to tell him, preferably until there was no other available option. He knew that a hunter’s life wasn’t right for a child, but that there was no way Dean could ever give it up. 

He dropped the lid of the toilet seat and sat down on it. Dean slid down the wall in front of him.

 

“How long?”

 

“What?”

 

“How long have you been… pregnant?”

 

“I’d estimate five and a half months or so.”

 

“Wait a minute. Five and a half? How long have you known?” Cas wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Cas. Work with me, here. How long have you known?”

 

“Two months,” he mumbled. The tears started falling again. 

 

“Hey. Come here.” Dean sat up and opened his arms. His expression was soft. Cas let himself fall from his perch and against him, eyes pouring freely now. Dean’s shoulders were tense but his hands were gentle as they smoothed up and down his back. 

 

“Are you mad?” he asked, face buried in his neck. 

 

“Why would I be mad, Cas?” Cas shook his head. “There’s nothing to be mad about. This is good news, right?” 

 

After Cas nodded, they stayed silent for a while. Dean laid a hand over his bump and they just breathed together. Every so often the little one offered a lazy kick, a half-formed foot feeling like the pop of a piece of popcorn against his belly. Eventually the muffled sounds of the movie floated down the hallway to them; Sam must’ve gotten tired of waiting. 

 

“Do you want to go watch with him?” Cas shifted in his arms. 

 

“Not particularly.”

 

“Let’s just stay here then.”

 

 

 

Sam found them that way in the morning.


	2. In Which Dean Fusses, Cas Gives a Brief Lesson in Angel Biology, and Titles are Chosen.

The next morning, Dean and Cas were in one of the endless file rooms in the subbasement. They were cataloguing old Men of Letters case files, but it was going slower than normal. Every time Dean brushed by Cas, he laid a hand on his stomach, hoping for a kick. He was rarely disappointed. 

 

It was endearing— Cas had never seen this side of him. The only downside was that the dopey smiles and random, awed exclamations were accompanied by borderline obsessive mother-henning. Cas could hardly go ten minutes without Dean insisting he sit down for a moment or drink a glass of water. (This child was sitting on his bladder. He was going to the bathroom often enough as it was, so no, thank you.)

 

“Do you need anything?”

 

“Dean,” he sighed. “I’m pregnant, not an invalid. I’m okay.” Dean’s face fell. Cas supposed that the fussing was the best way he knew to show how excited he was. So he tacked on a, “thank you for the concern, though. It’s very sweet.”

 

“Aww, Cas, you sap.” He pressed a kiss to his cheek and went to grab another stack of folders. They got all the way through it before Dean suggested they take a break. They traipsed upstairs and into the den. 

 

With Sam out on a jog, they could talk freely about the little one— they’d tell him soon, but Dean had wanted to keep her as their little secret for the time being. 

 

“So how is it going to work, exactly?”

 

“What?”

 

“You… giving birth.”

 

“I’d imagine the way human childbirth has worked for millennia.” Cas wriggled over the couch so he was in Dean’s lap, whose arms came immediately around his waist. 

 

“Cas, your vessel is a dude. That’s not how it’s worked for millennia.” Right, there was that. 

 

To prevent nephilim, heaven had implemented a sort of birth control program. All fledglings underwent a procedure in their infancy. Once it was complete, if an angel became pregnant with half-human spawn, their grace would fade away over the course of the gestational period. The theory behind it was that if the angel was not an angel when they gave birth, the child wouldn’t be born with any grace. The soul which belonged to the vessel that the not-angel was possessing at the time would be collected, and the angel would become a human in that body— fortunately, enough power was left over to create a functioning womb and birth canal as needed. Cas explained all of this.

 

“So by the time she gets here, you’ll be completely human?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you’ll just give birth to her.”

 

“Yes. It’ll be no different from when your mother gave birth to you.” Dean exhaled and became very still. When Cas looked up at him, he was kissed on the nose.

 

“You’re freaking incredible, you know that?” 

 

“You may have mentioned something to that effect.” Baby Winchester started an acrobatics routine. 

 

“You too, kiddo,” Dean added, rubbing the flat of his palm against her designated trampoline. Then, to Cas, he said, “I want her to call me Dad.” That was fine. He’d always liked the Icelandic term. 

 

“Alright. I’m going to be Pabbi.” 

 

“Mm. I like that. It’s very you.” 

 

“You think?”

 

“Very. I love you, Pabbi.”


	3. In Which Clothing is Shopped For

They hadn’t planned on doing their shopping today. It just sort of happened, when Cas wandered away in the grocery store and managed to find the baby clothes section. Dean found him a little while later, staring at a display of onesies and sleepers. 

 

He leaned in close and whispered, “you can get a couple if you want.” With the grin Cas gave him, he’d have bought the whole store. 

 

The next twenty minutes or so were spent amongst soft fabrics with floral prints and animal appliqués, Cas bouncing through the racks and pulling out tiny outfit after tiny outfit. Dean just leaned against a display and watched him, a little smile on his lips. 

 

He found that he wasn’t the ideal person to ask for opinions when it came to clothes. It worked, though, because Cas didn’t really require more than the occasional hum or nod of acknowledgment before he made a decision. Dean’s purpose in this was mostly holding the basket. 

 

They made quiet conversation as Cas browsed. Little things, like what was for dinner and how Sam’s hunt was progressing. Their comments on the merits of pasta versus rice were punctuated by questions of, “The pink or the purple?” and, “do you think she’ll look good in flowers?” (Pink, and of course— she’ll look good at anything, just look at her dads.) When Cas used the tips of his fingers to lift up a dainty pair of shoes, Dean’s heart clenched. 

 

They were so tiny. He wouldn’t be able to fit more than two fingers into them if he tried, but his daughter’s feet would slide in effortlessly. There was no way a real person could be that little, right? 

 

“What’s the point of these?” Cas asked, shaking Dean back to reality. “By the time she’s able to walk, her feet will be too big to fit in them.” 

 

“Just for looks, I guess. Do you like them?”

 

“Yes.” Dean set the basket down and walked behind him. He took the shoes and draped his arms over Cas’ shoulders. “What are you doing?” 

 

He placed the shoes against the little bump and kissed Cas’ cheek. “I don’t know. I’m just very…” he couldn’t find the word.

 

“Content?”

 

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not super happy with this one, but I figured I'd post it anyway.


	4. In Which The Joy is Spread

“Six months today,” Cas announced after spitting out his toothpaste. 

 

“Really? Wow.” Dean was still in bed, eyes open but an arm thrown over them. Even pregnant, Cas was still more of a morning person than him. “Guess that means we should tell Sam soon, huh?”

 

“Do you want to?”

 

“Yeah, I think so. Maybe at dinner?” Cas agreed and walked out of the bathroom. Dean gave him a lazy smile and patted the bed. 

 

“Come lay back down. We don’t have anywhere to be.” Cas rolled his eyes fondly and crawled up the covers. 

 

These were the little moments Dean savored. Just the two of them existing. They had been thrown together by noise and chaos, immersed in blood sigils, angel blades, and battle plans for years. It’s not that he wasn’t glad for the end result, but a bit of peace and quiet was welcome. Of course, it couldn’t last forever. 

 

“Up,” Cas urged, rolling away. “Your child is hungry.” Dean groaned but did as he bid. 

 

They found Sam in the kitchen. He didn’t have any food in front of him, or a mug of coffee. If he had any research going on, it had to have been invisible, because there were no papers or laptop in sight. It was strange, but something to be questioned after he reached the caffeine. 

 

“Morning, guys.”

 

“Good morning.” _Seriously, how was he so pleasant? It was only 7:30_. 

 

“Mornin’.” Nobody said anything for a minute; Cas walked to the fridge. As he pulled out the bag of bagels and carton of cream cheese, Sam’s eyes narrowed. Probably because angels don’t eat bagels. (Or food at all, really.)

 

“Hey, Cas. Did you happen to borrow my laptop yesterday?”

 

“Yes, why?”

 

“Any particular reason why I found it open to a Pinterest board of diaper bags this morning?”

 

Gut reaction: _crap crap crap crap he knows he found out he knows_. Cas caught his frantic eyes, though, and smiled at him. Okay. Right. They were going to tell him later, anyway. He cleared his throat. 

 

“Alright. So we were actually going to wait to tell you until tonight,” he started, smile growing. Cas abandoned his breakfast to walk over and tuck himself under Dean’s arm. “The family’s gonna be growing pretty soon.”

 

“Wait…”

 

Before he could fully connect the dots, Cas said, “You’re going to be an Uncle, Sam.”

 

Dean full-on snorted, earning himself a glare from both of them. Once Sam dropped the look, though, he was grinning and standing up. A normal person would not be able to simultaneously hug two people Dean and Cas’ size under normal circumstances. Add in the baby bump and it was near impossible. Sam, however, was the size of a freaking moose, and so the pair found themselves wrapped in a ginormous hug. 

 

“Congrats, man.” He let them go but turned around and folded Dean in his arms a second time. “Bet you didn’t see this one coming, huh?” And he would answer, but he couldn’t actually breathe at the moment. He wheezed some variant of “Sammy!” and patted his back. Sam pulled away, smile turning sheepish, before turning to grab Cas. Dean ducked in front of him and put his hands up.

 

“Gentle. Don’t crush her.”

 

“Her?”

 

“Yeah, Sammy.” As if he didn’t believe his brother, Sam looked to Cas, who nodded. “Little girl.”

 

“Wait. If you know already, that must mean you’re pretty far along, right?”

 

“Yes. I’m at six months today,” Cas said, as Dean stepped out of the way and Sam enveloped him in a soft hug. 

 

“Holy crap. Why didn’t you guys tell me?”

 

“It’s kind of a long story.” Sam rolled his eyes at them and laughed. 

 

“Everything’s a long story with you two.” Cas ducked out from under him and returned to his bagel. 

 

“At least this one has a happy ending,” Dean said. God, when did he become such a sap? “Or whatever. You know what I mean.” 

 

It felt a bit unfair. Sam was the one of them who had wanted the whole domesticity deal. Part of why he’d wanted to keep it quiet this long was guilt. Sam seemed really excited, though, rather than jealous. Thank God for good brothers. 

 

“Congratulations, guys, really. This is great.”


	5. In Which Baby Winchester Trains for the Soccer Team in the Middle of the Night

Only three more months. Of course, that meant three more months of sleep deprivation and backaches, but it would be over soon. That was little consolation right now, though, as the little one pummeled his kidneys at one in the morning. 

 

He’d managed to fall asleep pretty quickly tonight, curled up against Dean and already snoring by nine thirty. All good things must come to an end, apparently. She was relentless— Cas couldn’t tell if she was trying to get comfortable or was intentionally punishing him for something. 

 

“Go to sleep, little one,” he crooned, rubbing at his back. “It’s late.” He received a punch to the ribcage for his trouble. “Tigger, please.”

 

Dean had started calling her that a few weeks ago after she wouldn’t sit still when they watched a movie. The nickname had stuck, especially since they hadn’t picked out a name yet. It was especially apropos right now. 

 

“Do you need something?” he asked her as he rolled over. Apparently the movement displaced her. “Whoops. Sorry. I’ll try to be still now, if you will, deal?”

 

She didn’t like his terms. On the plus side, she would probably make a fantastic gymnast when she got older. 

 

A few minutes later, her acrobatics routine slowed. He sighed gratefully and closed his eyes. Just as he started to doze off, a tiny fist smacked his ribs thrice in quick succession. Oh, so this was her new game. Around 2, after five or six attempts to fall asleep, he groaned and flipped onto his back. Dean made a sort of moaning sound and opened one eye. 

 

“Little one keeping you awake?” he mumbled, voice laden with tiredness. Cas nodded. Dean put a hand on his belly and smoothed it back and forth, stilling their daughter. “Let Pabbi get some rest, kiddo.” A daddy’s girl already, Cas supposed. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

“That’s my job. Now,” he held his arm up above him, “come here and go to sleep.” Cas shuffled toward him and nestled against his side. He could feel the hard lines of muscle matched up to the soft swell of his bump as Dean let the arm fall over him. “Goodnight, baby.”

 

“Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Painfully short but I think it's sweet.


	6. In Which Dean Wants to Make Something Pretty

For three burly men who used to kill things on the daily, they were all surprisingly artistic. Perhaps it was the little girl inside of Cas infecting them all with what Dean normally referred to as “chick crap.” Since quitting the family business, Sam had taken up painting. Nowadays, the war room was constantly littered with half-dry canvases and receipts for watercolors, and red or blue was always streaked through his hair. The designated nursery had a few decorations propped up against the wall; waiting until the room was painted for hanging. 

 

Cas had decided to try his hand at knitting. His early attempts at handkerchiefs were messy, tight in some places and so loose they were almost falling apart in others, but he slowly improved. By 31 weeks he had a comically tall stack of afghans, car seat blankets, and washcloths in various shades of pink and green, and there was a basket next to the bed full of delicate pairs of socks and tiny striped hats. Any stress he had accumulated throughout the day seemed to disintegrate as stitches formed in his hands, as if the soft wool of the yarn absorbed it. Dean would often sit next to him as he crafted, trying and failing to pretend to read a book. His eyes were always drifting over to the garments in his lap, mouth dropping open in awe as they took shape. Every so often he’d stretch out a hand and finger the thick weave, smiling up at Cas with his eyes twinkling. 

 

“I wish I could make stuff like that,” he mused one night, after the pages had fluttered shut and fallen out of his hands. 

 

“I could teach you, if you’d like.”

 

And he did his best. Really, he did. But knitting was not, and would never be, Dean’s forte. 

 

So the blonde tried different hobbies. Crocheting. Embroidery. Machine sewing— Cas was sworn to secrecy on that one. He tried sculpting clay, soap, even ice. Every attempt ended up in the trash can (or, in the case of the failed penguin, melted in the sink). Cas found what he’s pretty sure was supposed to be a puppet crammed in a box in the back of the pantry at one point. Scrapbooking. Basket weaving (just… _no_ ). Calligraphy was a disaster that left his hands stained black for a week. In Cas’ opinion, the photography turned out really well, but Dean insisted that it was terrible. A file room had to be cleaned out for all their new craft supplies— using a few different aliases, Dean probably made up about 80% of the local art store’s customer base. It was almost amusing, watching his brow furrow and the pink tip of his tongue peek out of his mouth each time he embarked on a new project. 

 

_Scratch that_ , he thought, as Dean started scraping away at the surface of a piece of wood, _Very amusing._ Whittling was his newest venture into the world of crafting, and his eyes were squinted so tightly it looked as if he could barely see. A couple of times, the knife slipped and carved into his fingers— Cas flinched harder than Dean. 

 

It took him half an hour, but eventually he proudly held up a spoon. The handle was a bit lopsided and the bowl was shallow, but Cas thought it was fantastic. He kissed him briefly before grabbing his hand. The cuts weren’t so deep as to need stitches, but should definitely be bandaged. 

 

“Come on. Let’s go clean these up.”

 

Over the course of the following weeks, Dean was never without a block of wood and a pocket knife. The constant bandaids felt odd on his skin whenever he rubbed his swollen belly, but Cas could never help but smile. One afternoon, Dean locked himself away in the craft room for a few hours. He came out irked but kissed Cas’ cheek softly, asking what he wanted for dinner. 

 

The pattern repeated itself every day for the next month, Dean slowly looking less frustrated and more proud each afternoon. Cas wasn’t allowed to see what he was working on. 

 

One morning, when Dean found him crying over literal spilled milk, he mopped up the tears and the dairy, then led him to the door which had been closed for the past few weeks. 

 

“Go ahead and open it.” In the middle of the room there was a table. On top of it was a two foot tall wooden bird cage, the light pine wood stained mahogany. The bars of it were adorned with delicate vines and leaves, which curled up into a bouquet of roses and lilies on top. Inside was a songbird, no more than five inches long, perched on a swing which hung from the top of the sculpture. It was incredibly realistic— Sam probably did the painting. When he got closer, he could see the texture of individual feathers carved on its wings. “Do you like it?”

 

Cas had no words. It was beautiful. 

 

“Cas?” Oh. He hadn’t responded. He nodded almost frantically as he spun around and held out his arms. Dean surged into them. “I wanted to make something pretty for her.”

 

“It is. Very pretty,” he choked, reaching around Dean’s shoulder to swipe at his eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.”

 

“It’s okay.” Bandaged hands smoothed up and down his hands and a kiss was pressed to his temple. When Cas leaned away to look at him, green eyes were watery too. “A birdie for our little birdie.”

 

Tigger was a stupid nickname, anyway. 


	7. In Which the Boys Make a List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi im so sorry

You know, Baby Winchester needed a name. For the time being, they’d been calling her by some mix of BW, Tigger, and Birdie, but Cas was at seven months. She would be here soon and he didn’t really want to call his daughter Tigger for three months after she was born. 

 

He broached the topic one night as they read in bed. “What do you think of Delilah?” Cas hummed vaguely, licking his finger and turning the page. “Cas.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Delilah. What do you think? For Birdie?” His head dropped to the side, dark hair flopping over itself. He needed a haircut soon. He’d ask Sam to do it, but he was pretty sure the guy hadn’t so much as touched a pair of scissors since college. (They couldn’t bring him to a barber— at this point, it was quite obvious that he was pregnant, rather than just tubby. People would ask questions.)

 

“What about Desdemona instead?”

 

“No. No way.”

 

“What’s so bad about it?”

 

“This isn’t the 1500s, baby. She’ll get teased at school. Desdemona _?_ ”

 

“One of my sisters was named Desdemona. She was very… human. You would have liked her.” One corner of Dean’s mouth quirked and then fell again. 

 

“I dunno, Cas. Maybe for a middle name?” He took Cas’ hand and gave a little squeeze. 

 

“Maybe.”

 

They let the topic drop and picked up their books again. Dean kept his fingers locked with Cas’ until they decided to turn off the lights and catch some shut eye— at which point they spread over his bump, the two of them pressed together from shoulder to ankle and Dean’s nose nuzzled into his neck. 

 

“Night, Cas. Night, Birdie.”

 

In the morning, they asked Sam what he thought. He suggested Bethany, Judith (Judy for short), and a handful of others. Dean tacked a few more on, and Cas suggested Cierra. At some point, somebody got up to grab a notepad, and the trio spent the morning compiling a list. Cas put it up on the refrigerator with a pen, so they could keep adding as time passed. 

 

The thing about it was that the little one was going to have to grow up with this name. Whatever they ended up choosing, she would have to live with it her entire life. It would be called out by substitute teachers and frazzled baristas, printed on her high school diploma, scrawled on checks, and maybe even signed on a marriage license someday. Even after her uncle and her fathers were six feet under, she’d still be living with her name. They had to get it right. 

 

“Dean,” Cas groaned, flopping onto the bed early one afternoon, “I’m bored.” That was becoming more and more common a problem these days. What with giving up hunting (they had a baby on the way, none of them could afford to put themselves in danger like that anymore) and Cas not being able to leave the bunker, they’d been struggling to find ways to spend their time. Neither brother really saw a good reason to get a job— when you had three dozen ill-gotten but functioning credit cards in the kitchen drawer and a savings account full of generous thank you gifts from would-be monster victims, there was no reason to spend every day on your feet, away from your family. 

 

They’d picked up their hobbies and crafted until their hands were sore. Dean insisted on bringing Cas (and Sam, actually) up to speed on every significant book, song, movie, and TV show he could think of, so something was always playing in the background, even before Cas got pregnant. They’d scrubbed the bunker from top to bottom and almost all of the old case files were uploaded to a database Sam had set up; now, any hunter the boys had deemed they could trust had a password and access to decades upon decades of monster info, courtesy of the Men of Letters. 

 

And Cas had, for some reason, learned how to do nail art. After Dean had gotten over his initial hesitance— read: Sam had double-dog dared him— the pair both walked around with manicures befitting New York Fashion Week. (Not that he knew anything about that. Nothing at all.) Sam had eventually joined in on the fun, today sporting something fancy, purple, and intricate-looking. Cas had explained it to the both of them three times already: “Wisteria Haze, with metallic half-moons and tribal print tips, with glitter accents”— but to Dean it just looked like shiny blackmail material. Then again, Sam had photo evidence of him wearing a pink and gold glittery “frenchie,” and he really didn’t need that shown to a teenaged version of his daughter. 

 

“You wanna take a look at the name list?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Dean dropped his book (he wasn’t really reading it, anyway) on the mattress and pulled himself off the bed. He leaned over Cas at the foot of it to kiss him. “Be back in just a minute.”

 

The list was on one of those soccer mom type notepads, the kind with the magnet on the back and the floral print around the sides of the writing part. He had no idea why they even had it. 

 

The pen which Cas had put with it that first morning had gotten lost at some point. There was one all-black chunk, but below that it grew into some sort of technicolor-ombre monster. Three handwriting styles jumbled together, creating a nearly illegible mess of names, ranging from Zoe to Amaryllis (which had a note scrawled next to it— _it means new beginnings)_.

 

The pair spent an hour going through the compilation— the list had taken up almost every single one of the pink pages. Some they scribbled a line through before Dean had even read out the second syllable, and others they wrote down in a separate notebook “for consideration.” Neither would admit it, but that really meant they were feeling too lazy today to argue over whether they were worthy. 

 

“Sparrow,” he read, a smile erasing the yawn which had started out of his mouth. “I really like this one.”

 

“First or middle?”

 

“First, I think.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“I like it. It fits.”

 

Dean leaned over and pressed a kiss to Cas’ lips. He smiled. “Sparrow.” Cas smoothed his linked hands over his belly. 

 

A few days passed. Dean carved a few more wooden birds and Cas figured out how to knit flowers, which he stitched onto a few green blankets. When the topic of a middle name came up, they were in the middle of dinner. Dean and Sam were bickering. 

 

“Sam, cupcakes and muffins are completely different!”

 

“There’s literally no difference! The only difference is the icing!”

 

“Of course there’s a difference! Cupcakes are all moist and crumbly. Muffins are just gross, man.”

 

“What does it even matter? I thought that pie was ‘the dessert to trump all desserts, all the rest are gross anyway’?”

 

“Well, obviously, but I’m not going to just sit here and let your stupid muffins ruin the whole dessert table!” 

 

Sam was about six seconds from receiving a faceful of enchiladas when Cas looked up from his plate and mused, “Jordan.”

 

“What?” they said in unison. Dean set his plate back on the table and turned to him.

 

“Jordan. For her middle name. What do you think?”

 

“Hold up. Hold up. Does she have a first name already?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Sparrow. Because she’s my little birdie?”

 

“That’s nice. I like it.”

 

“Sam. Dean. Jordan— what do you think?”

 

It was pretty. If he wasn’t mistaken, Jordan was also the name of some important biblical place, which fit nicely with Cas’ history. It sounded nice with Sparrow, too. 

 

“I like it,” Sam said, smiling a little, “but why?”

 

“I’m not really sure. Dean?”

 

“If it makes you happy, it makes me happy, baby.” He reached a hand across the table to link with Cas’, who blushed. Dean couldn’t help but smile at the sweet little duck of his head and the way his eyes peeked up shyly. 

 

“Aww,” Sam crowed. “Dean, you sap!”

 

“Quiet, Sammy, or I’m telling Charlie about that one time with the hair curlers.”

 

“You promised!”

 

Cas began giggling at their antics. He stage whispered to his belly, “Daddy and Uncle Sam are being very silly, aren’t they?” Dean laughed out loud. What could be better than this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta Da


	8. In Which a Room is Redecorated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's from Sam's POV.

Somehow Dean got it in his head that he and Sam should decorate the nursery and make it a surprise for Cas. They decided to do three of the walls in this malachite color which Dean refused to call anything but “light green.” On the other, Sam was tasked with painting a forest. He was happy to— it was a really nice canvas to work with, without windows or electrical outlets to break up the smooth expanse of plaster. They taped off the ceiling and got to work. 

 

It took several days of work in small increments. Dean would paint a half wall before taking a long shower and checking on Cas (he was almost worryingly concerned about the paint fumes, for some reason. Cas had been a literal soldier of heaven, but apparently remnants of chemicals were public enemy number one.) Sam would finish off whatever corner or element he was working on and leave, too. The job wasn’t nearly as much fun by himself. 

 

The actual painting only took a week. The main walls got done pretty fast once Cas assured Dean that he was okay by himself for a few hours, and the mural, being relatively simple, practically painted itself once he got focused. Dean left him to it every so often, and these were the times when he decided to add in some special details. Things you’d never notice without looking at the wall for a while— he was sure that at some point, they’d be noticed (be it by Cas, Dean, or Sparrow), but until then, it remained an inside joke with himself. A songbird with wings looking a bit more angelic than avian. The silhouette of a ’67 impala incorporated into the pattern of the tree bark. A few sigils done in shades almost imperceptibly different from the main greens and browns and blues— hey, he might as well throw a little bit of protection in with the pretty stuff, right?

 

Cas was allowed some involvement in picking out the furniture. Online, of course. They had it all shipped to Rufus’ cabin and made plans to go get it a few days later. Dean was a little apprehensive about taking him on the road for three days at this stage— eight months along, and he was barely able to sit still for the duration of a movie, much less a road trip. Besides, if a certain little someone decided to make an early appearance, both of them wanted it to be in the bunker, not on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. Dean eventually dropped the car keys into Sam’s hands and told him to drive safe, electing to stay home and do… whatever it was he did with Cas when he was gone. Sappy, couple-y stuff, Sam was sure. 

 

Without a brother to wrestle over the steering wheel and a familiar jazz station on the radio, the drive passed quickly and quietly. He allowed himself some time to think about what life with a little kid running around would be like, but tried not to dwell on the idea. What happened would happen and there was no sense in trying to dream up some fairytale, right? He was definitely excited, though. 

 

When he pulled the car up beside the concrete entrance to the bunker, a jaw-cracking yawn split out of him. Three near complete days of driving were starting to tire him out more than they used to.

 

Dean came outside to help him take the boxes of furniture out of the trunk and backseat. Seeing as the nursery was fairly small, the expecting parents had only ordered a crib, dresser, and rocking chair, all in dark wood to complement the rich tones of the paint. His brother was surprisingly talented at interior design. 

 

They set the heavy cartons down on the table in the war room and went to the kitchen— there was still some time, so was no reason to break it all out and start assembling tonight. Cas had his sleeves pushed up and was scooping something into little pastry crusts when they entered the room. 

 

“Hello, Sam,” he greeted, setting the spoon on a napkin. “How are you?”

 

“Tired,” he laughed. 

 

“Yes, I suppose you would be. Dinner’s almost done.” Dean crossed the room towards him and kissed his cheek. 

 

“How can I help, Cas?”

 

“Put the posole in the bowls for me?” Cas was a really, really good cook. Half the time, Sam didn’t know what exactly he was eating, but it never failed to be delicious. 

 

“No problem.”

 

“Anything I can do?”

 

“No. You’ve been driving for three days straight,” Cas said, “so you sit and we’ll finish up.” Okay, then. He watched as his brother served up the soup and brother in law (well, not officially, but he was sure that wedding bands were somewhere in the near future) slide the tray of crusts into the oven. The two were surprisingly good together in the kitchen, ducking under and around each other and passing hot pads and such back and forth with an almost practiced ease. Far more domestic than he ever thought he’d see Dean be. They brought the food to the table and all three dug in. 

 

“This is awesome, Cas, seriously,” Dean groaned around a mouthful of bean puff. “I swear, you’re magic or something.”

 

“Just good at interpreting a recipe.” They made heart eyes at each other for a solid minute until Sam cleared his throat. That was one thing which hadn’t changed since they’d pulled themselves together and started dating, and it was still uncomfortable for any and all third parties present (namely, himself). 

 

“Alright. I’m gonna hit the hay. Thanks for dinner, guys, it was really good.”

 

“Cas did all the work, Sammy, it’s him you should be thanking.” He dipped his head at the pregnant angel and stood. 

 

“Thank you for going to get the furniture,” Cas added, taking another bite. 

 

“No problem. See you guys in the morning.”

 

After breakfast the next day, Dean pulled him aside, asking if they should show Cas the nursery. He thought it was a great idea, so they interrupted a hardcore knitting session to guide him to the door. Dean covered Cas’ eyes with one hand, gesturing at Sam to open the door with the other. Slowly, they all walked inside. Apparently, while he was driving, Dean had untaped the ceiling and baseboards and laid out a cushy brown rug. 

 

“You ready?” Cas nodded and Dean took the hand away. 

 

“I love it,” he gasped, eyes lighting up. Both brothers barked a laugh and watched as Cas spun in a slow circle, taking in all the details. The ceiling was still white, but the floors were a dark, soil-y color. That, mixed with the greens of the walls and the mural, gave the whole room a sort of earthy feel. They’d hung the carved bird cage from the ceiling in the center of the room and a few paintings on the solid colored walls. It was still empty, but felt homey. 

 

“Yeah?” Cas held his arms out and they both hugged him. 

 

“Yes. Very much.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shouldn't have taken so long and I'm kinda sorry for that. I don't even have an excuse, I just got lazy and didn't write for like 4 days. Whoops. I'll try to get the next one up really soon if possible.  
> ~  
> ~  
> Here's the recipe for the meal they ate: http://www.publix.com/aprons-recipes/chicken-posole-with-bean-and-cheese-puffs (posole pronounced puh-ZOL-ee)


	9. In Which Dean and Cas Have Some Peace and Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for dentist-funding, cavity-giving cotton candy fluff ahead.

Last year, if you had told Dean Winchester that today, he’d be wearing a floral print apron and baking a cinnamon banana cream pie with his pregnant… well, with a pregnant Castiel, he’d have choked on his beer before stabbing you with a wooden stake. Sometimes he wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t some sort of drawn out trickster stage play, but he was going to enjoy it, regardless. 

 

Cas popped a banana disk into his mouth and slid the cutting board over to him. The garnishes were all ready, they just had to be placed on top once he finished scraping the gooey custard filling into the crust. The longer they worked, the more the bunker smelled like spice and pastries (and Cas progressively got covered in more flour and lord knows what else). 

 

“Thanks.” He winked before looking down at the treat before him. A few good shakes and taps of the foil pan against the countertop and the filling settled, and he and Cas took turns putting the fresh yellow fruit on top. When he opened the fridge to clear a space for their pie to chill, he caught sight of the Reddi-Whip can. “Oh, baby, you’ve gotta try this.”

 

Neither Winchester brother had shown him the marvel of squirty whipped topping. 

 

Pulling his phone out of his back pocket, he shook the can. The recording tone sounded from the little speaker and Cas shot him a quizzical look. 

 

“Dean, what is this?”

 

“Do you trust me?”

 

“Of course, I do, why would—”

 

“C’mere,” he interrupted, “you’ll love it, I promise.” Hesitantly, Cas followed his guidance as he tipped his head back. Still holding the camera in one hand, he squirted out a huge mouthful of the sweet cream. Boy, was he glad to get this on film. If a picture speaks a thousand words, then a video speaks a million, and there was not even a _number_ for what the expression on Cas’ face said. 

 

(From that point on, it was rare to see the refrigerator without at least three cans of the stuff. Dean was fairly certain that if Cool Whip were a person, he’d have some serious competition.)

 

They packed away the pastry and got to work cleaning up the mess they’d made. Why were there so many dishes? They definitely hadn’t used this many mixing bowls when they were actually baking. _Oh well,_ he figured, _it’s Sam’s night for cleanup anyway._ Being the wonderful big brother that he was, he filled the sink up with hot water and set everything in to soak, so it would be less of a pain later on. It was absolutely not any sort of self preservation because he didn’t want to listen to him complain, nope, not at all, what are you talking about. 

 

He turned to find Cas scrubbing away at some dried banana crud on the countertop. With his sleeves pushed up and long bangs flopping over his eyes, he was the picture of beauty. 

 

Dean sauntered over and looped his arms around his distended waist. “Hey, honeybee.” A blush colored Cas’ cheeks like a red crayon scribble. 

 

“Hi,” he said quietly.

 

“How’re you?”

 

“I’m doing alright.” He dug his teeth into his bottom lip and smiled. Dean hummed and they just sort of laughed and stood there. 

 

“How about we get married?”

 

“Do you want to?” That euphoric, little kid spark was flaring up in the middle of his blue eyes, but he offered the back door anyway.

 

“Hey, I proposed, didn’t I?”

 

“Yes, Dean, I want to get married.” He pulled him in by the edge of his ridiculous floral apron and they kissed for a long time. Sam walked in and coughed. 

 

“I really, really hope you guys didn’t drool in the food.” Dean turned. Glared over his shoulder. Then, of course, being newly engaged, the look was replaced by a grin. 

 

“Nah, Sammy. 100% slobber free.”

 

“Dude, what’s up with you?”

 

“We’re engaged, Sam,” Cas announced. Why did he put the video camera away, again? Christ, the combination of slack-jawed and smiling that Sam was sporting would make them a killing on one of those home video shows. Hugs were offered all around (that seemed to be happening more and more often, lately) and laughter filled the kitchen. 

 

“So whose best man am I going to be?” 

 

Cas and Dean locked eyes for a moment before the shorter of the two looked away, responding with a simple “Yes.” Okay, they were still working on that. He’d get it. Before anybody could respond to that, Cas looked back to his new fiancé. “You still owe me a ring, Winchester.”

 

“I’ll get right on that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm weak for domesticity. You like?


	10. In Which Angels are a Lot Like Birds

Angels weren’t quite like birds, but they had some funny similarities. For example— when they first became an “item,” Cas was constantly giving Dean rocks he’d found. Apparently it was a penguin behavior. (He’d kept all of them. They were lined up along the top of their dresser and caught the light from Dean’s bedside lamp fantastically.)

 

Another borrowed behavior was nesting. Since they’d found out they were expecting, Dean was always finding small mountains of blankets and pillows wherever Cas spent a lot of time. In the beginning, he’d been able to dismantle the little piles and set everything back the way it was supposed to be. As the months passed, though, he made him stop. 

 

“Baby, we can’t keep a pile of blankets at the kitchen table.” The look he gave him had him backpedalling. “Or at least not all the time? Maybe we can keep it all in a basket and you can set it up when you come in here.” Cas teared up a little and, glancing away, started taking apart his nest. “Hey. You okay?”

 

“‘m fine.” His hand came up to swipe at his eyes. 

 

“Cas.”

 

“It’s not important. I’ll put them away.”

 

Dean found him later, curled up in a puddle of throw pillows on the floor of the nursery. He squatted down beside him and shook his shoulder. He was slow to come to, blue eyes squinting and bleary, a line creased into his cheek. 

 

“Hey there.”

 

“Hello.”

 

“I talked to Sam. Apparently I’m an idiot.” Cas snorted. 

 

“And why’s that?” he asked as Dean sat down beside him in the little burrow. 

 

“Because I made my pregnant fiancé cry.” When Cas let his head fall onto Dean’s shoulder, his messy hair tickled against his chin. “You can leave your nests up if you want.”

 

“Thank you, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reminded of HazelDomain's "Birds Do It" while I wrote this. (Go read it. Rated G) http://archiveofourown.org/works/7413613

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. Kudos, Comments, you know the drill if you've ever read an author's note before.


End file.
